


Royalty Sucks: be an abolishionist

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s02e03 The Good Traitor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 07:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11801091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: post The Good Traitor Constance is angry





	Royalty Sucks: be an abolishionist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhesascoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhesascoffee/gifts).



Samara doesn’t stay long to say her goodbyes and Porthos is left with a book of poems and an odd aching feeling while he sees to his horse. He’s going over her with a soft brush, telling her about his adventures and making her silky smoothe, when a rider comes clattering into the forecourt looking for Treville. No one much is around so Porthos takes a written message and heads for the palace with Mercredi. He knows he’ll get a telling off from Aramis for riding but Mercredi is in a gentle, easy mood and goes slow, as if she knows he’s hurt. It’s still a bit of a jolt to have to stand when they reach the palace and Porthos has to limp more than he wants as he weaves his way through the palace, which seems as quiet as the garrison. The furore over the sick dauphine has left everyone subdued and quiet, careful to avoid the queen’s wrath probably. Porthos takes a round-about route to avoid too many steps and finds himself passing through a corridor near the servant’s stairs toward the throne-room. There’s a door half open and Constance is sat in there, by the window, gazing out. Porthos taps and enters. 

 

“Is the captain still around?” Porthos asks. 

 

“I haven’t a clue,” Constance says. Her voice is grating and careless, it sounds like maybe she’s been crying and is definitely upset. 

 

“Alright,” Porthos says. “I’ll go have a look, shall I?”

 

She turns to give him an exasperated look and he tries a disarming grin. She rolls her eyes to the heavens but gestures him further into the room. It’s a small anti-chamber, probably for the queen’s ladies-in-waiting to withdraw to when sent away but perhaps needed quickly. Porthos perches on a fiddly little spindly chair, stretching out his leg. 

 

“You’re hurt,” Constance says. “I heard a little of what happened.”

 

“I’m fine,” Porthos says. “I haven’t heard much of you, these last few days.”

 

“I am staying silent on that subject, anything I say at this moment will come out sounding treasonous,” Constance says. 

 

She’s not upset, after all; she’s angry. For one absurd moment Porthos wonders if perhaps she, too, met Samara and had reason to wish her to stay. But, Samara was locked in that basement with Porthos most of the time, so no. Just Porthos feeling that one. 

 

“If you want to talk about it,” Porthos offers, getting to his feet. “Get some ‘a that anger out. My room aren’t at the garrison, they’re along behind, come find me later. I’m seeing Treville then going back to see to Mercredi and maybe talk Serge into feeding me, then home.”

 

He leaves her to her window gazing and just as he reaches the door she grudgingly tells him that Treville and the others are in the grounds round the back. He heads that way and down the steps and sees them in a little huddle, looking miserable. He expects Aramis to look annoyed when he spots Porthos, but he just looks right through Porthos and seems nothing but tired and fed up. 

 

“Message for you, captain,” Porthos says, handing the letter over to Treville and leaning against the wall next to Athos. 

 

“You should be in bed,” Athos says, mildly. Then he shrugs. “Thought I’d have a go at taking Aramis’s part, but I just sounds sarcastic.”

 

Porthos laughs and leans his shoulder closer to Athos, who reaches to give it a pat. Aramis wanders over and leans the other side of Porthos, holding his arm for a moment. 

 

“d’Artagnan and Aramis,” Treville says, beckoning them over. 

 

“I suppose that means I’m dismissed,” Athos says, loud enough for Treville to hear, hopeful.

 

“No. Stay here in case the king asks for the musketeers, let’s not give him any further reason to think badly of us,” Treville snaps. “Porthos, get gone, there’s no good hanging around looking like a sign for a bad barber-surgeon.”

 

Porthos looks at his nice, untorn trousers that hide his bandage and then up at Treville. Athos murmurs that he has blood on his shoulder and presses his thumb to demonstrate where, just out of sight. His hand is warm and familiar and Porthos feels a rush of comfort that he hadn’t thought he needed. Athos spreads his hand so more than his thumb is in contact with Porthos. Porthos sighs and goes back to Mercredi, leaving the others to their duties, riding back to the garrison. He’s tired enough that Serge gives him the good stuff: a pastry and some fresh bread and meat that’s probably meant for dinner or the captain. He must look bad, he thinks, when Serge brings out wine, too. But Serge joins him and pours some for himself which makes Porthos grin. Serge growls in irritation and Porthos grins wider, unable to help himself. 

 

“Heard you got yourself blown up,” Serge says. 

 

“Maybe,” Porthos says. 

 

Serge shakes his head and asks about the woman Porthos has been seen with, then offers some heartfelt but prosaic advice on not getting involved with people who get him blown up, then leaves, taking the wine with him. Porthos finishes the small cup he’s been given and sits around trying to seem pathetic and in need of more. When Serge ignores him and does not bring more wine, Porthos heads home. He finds Constance in his outer room, with a skin of wine, and congratulates himself on his good fortune. She’s drunk most of it, it turns out, however. He gets his water jug and offers her a large mug, along with bread he took from Serge and some ends of cheese he has here. 

 

“Thank you,” she says, eating eagerly and drinking all the water. 

 

“Was this full?” Porthos asks, emptying the last of the wine into his own mug and refilling hers with water.

 

“Perhaps,” Constance says. “No. Mostly.”

 

“So? Have you had enough to loose your tongue?” 

 

“That is not why I drank it. Her majesty told me I was to have whatever I liked from the kitchens, and I chose that. And…” Constance struggles with her dress for a moment, getting in a confusion, then emerges triumphantly with two figs. Fat, ripe, a good purple colour and so full they are almost splitting. 

 

Porthos breaks his into two and takes a bite. It’s sweet and bursting with flavour. Porthos hums and smiles at Constance, swallowing and taking a sip of wine. She sets her own fig on the table carefully and drinks some water, also carefully. 

 

“Her majesty the queen saw fit to lock me up and have me put to death,” Constance says. “I saved the life of Dauphine, but she did not trust me.”

 

Thoughts burst through Porthos’s mind, old things, bitter and curdling. He is loyal to the crown and believes in France and her king, her queen. He believes in royalty. Some of the time. He thinks of fighting for Louis in the tavern, of suggesting to Athos they show him the actual real world of ordinary men. Of Louis promising Bruno pardon and not giving it and not remembering Pierre Pepin. Porthos has visited the Pepins, just to check up. The first two times he took oranges for the little girl and some flour and bread for her mother, but last time they were gone, packed up and vanished. Probably to family. Hopefully. He knows d’Artagnan went back also to give her more gold, when he got his wage packet. 

 

“Porthos?” Constance says. 

 

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “They’re different, royals.”

 

“Yes,” Constance says. “I haven’t earnt her trust, clearly. I am to be her confidant, she seems to be asking more of me than I thought. Not a friend, someone who obeys.”

 

“Speaking out is brave. She’ll learn to respect it and appreciate it. Or she’ll lose you, I think,” Porthos says. “You’re not dead, so I assume something else happened?”

 

“The doctor… doctor Lemay, he spoke up. Eventually. He was so sure I was wrong, wouldn’t listen,” Constance says, and here is the real anger and frustration. Porthos pushes his wine across to her and nudges the fig closer. She takes an absent bite and speaks around it. “The Dauphine was dying, Porthos. I couldn’t allow it, even if it had meant my death. Why are men so stubborn?”

 

“Are we still talking about the doctor?” Porthos asks and gets a scolding glare in reply, Constance hugs the wine closer to her and takes the other half of Porthos’s fig off the table as if in punishment for invoking d’Artagnan even slightly. Porthos raises his hands in submission, but gently takes his wine back. “We know we are right.”

 

“Yeah well, nearly killed the future king of France knowing you were right,” Constance says, another sharp glare piercing Porthos. “Anyway I took him to the laundries and he got commoner all over him.”

 

Porthos snorts, unable to keep his amusement from escaping. He remembers that old remedy, the laundresses used to let him bring the babies from the court, sometimes, for the steam. Didn’t help much, a lot of the time. Tiny little things with bodies that weren’t properly formed or fed, they often died. It made their passing easier, though, and made him feel better, being able to help them. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. 

 

“I didn’t do it for her, anyway,” Constance says. 

 

Porthos remembers riding from Paris with Constance bearing Henry, it feels a long time ago now. He had seen her tenderness for the child and the way she looked sideways to d’Artagnan.

 

“You want children?” Porthos asks. “With Bonacieux? I merely ask!”

 

He holds up his hands again when she turns on him. She softens though and looks away, all distant and sad. 

 

“I don’t know. I have thought of it, imagined it. I don’t think I could bring a child into this, though,” Constance says, gesturing around her. “This.. d’Artagnan, his children would be bastards. Orphans, probably, the way he goes. With my husband they would be… unloved. There’s not money to give them luxury, all I’ve got is love and it isn’t enough, not really. Won’t keep a belly full or give a boy a good start, or save a girl from…” 

 

“You are a practical woman,” Porthos says. “I’ve got no chance of any of my own, not really. I want a family, though. More than anything, maybe.”

 

“If either of us get it, we could share,” Constance says. 

 

“Yes,” Porthos says, nodding, holding out his hand to shake on it; an agreement. “Family’s what you make of it, right? I haven’t got any, you’ll be as good as any of that lot over there.”

 

He waves towards the garrison, meaning Athos, Aramis, d’Artagnan. Constance nods. They shake hands again as if making another pact, as if swearing family. 

 

“I did it for the Dauphin,” Constance says. “He’s a whole person already, he’s too little to lose his life.”

 

“No, they can die smaller, or bigger, or anywhere between,” Porthos says. “He won’t, though. Not with you looking out for him, clearly.”

 

Constance raises her chin and swallows hard, eyes burning. Porthos gets up on a whim and goes to the closet where he keeps his weapons, pulling out a small boot knife. He gives it to Constance and gets out a sheath that she can wear around her thigh - he sits and cuts the leather, moving the buckle up and stitching it quickly while she watches. 

 

“This’ll help,” Porthos says. “d’Artagnan ever teach you knife fighting, or close hand to hand?”

 

“No, just how to shoot and sword-work,” Constance says. 

Porthos nods and promises to show her some. To his surprise she gets up right then and there and makes him move the table aside and show her the basics, show her where to aim her little knife, how to get her knee between a man’s legs hard and sharp, how to break a bone. He shows her the tricks he used when he was small, the things he learnt fast and could use against people bigger than him, keeping his weight off his leg and correcting her stance and movement rather than demonstrating well. She works out her anger on him and he lets her, familiar with the process, gently telling her when she’s going to actually hurt him if she doesn’t stop, moving slowly and clumsily with his limp. She ends up with her fists against his chest, head resting on his shoulder, panting and gasping for breath through sobs. He holds her, one hand cradling her head the other in the small of her back. 

 

“She had me dragged away,” Constance says, through her tears. “For  _ saving _ her  _ son _ . I would do anything for her and she doesn’t… doesn’t…”

 

“Shh,” Porthos murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

 

“Your leg,” Constance says, on a sob. He chuckles and shrugs. 

 

“Hurts, but is fine. I told you when it wasn’t,” Porthos says. 

 

“Yeah,” Constance says. “I drank a lot of wine.”

 

“Yes you did.”

 

Constance sighs, kind of wetly, and moves her hands, her fists unclenching, arms winding around him to hold on tight, crying less violently. Porthos doesn’t really know what to do to make it better: he’s served the king most of his life, joined the army when he was young and never really looked back. He’s never had any kind of friendship or intimacy with the royals, though. He’d found the musketeers intimidating enough, young gentlemen second sons, the children of the rich. And Athos of noble blood. They’d been musketeers first, though. His leg hurts and Constance’s crying is less, she’s getting heavy as if she’s falling asleep. Porthos gently pushes her away and makes her drink some more water, eat something more. He rests his leg while she does that and then he walks her back to the palace. She’s a married woman so her being walked through Paris by a musketeer isn’t so odd, but he’s aware that they have been alone for a long time and it might not look right, so he carries a package of cloth for her, to give her a reason should she need one. 

 

“Porthos,” Constance says, when they reach the bottom of the stairs and find one of the queen’s women waiting for Constance’s return. He nods. “Thank you.”

 

“Yeah, we’ve got you,” Porthos says, smiling. “You’ve got friends, right?”

 

“Right,” Constance says. 

 

“Anyway,” Porthos says, bending closer and lowering his voice. “Wouldn’t have let them get as far as putting you to death. We’ll come for you every time, you’re one of us.”

 

Constance takes a slightly shaky breath and nods. Porthos hands her the package and heads back out. He rests when he’s left the palace grounds and is no longer under scrutiny, leaning on the wall. He regrets, now, using his leg so much. He’s not sure it’ll bear him the distance back to the garrison. He’s considering his options when he hears hooves and looks around, and sees Athos coming from the Louvre. He reigns in and looks down at Porthos, unimpressed, face shadowed by his hat. He offers his arm eventually and helps Porthos mount behind. 

 

“Someone mentioned they’d seen you drop Constance back,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Thanks.”

 

“I’m not defending you from Aramis,” Athos says. 

 

They ride in silence and Athos, sure enough, leaves Porthos in Aramis’s hands. Aramis is waiting when they arrive in the courtyard of the garrison and Athos pushes Porthos gently off Jeudi and goes to see to her, ignoring Porthos’s imploring looks in the face of Aramis, hands on hips, hair down and in disarray, looking thoroughly tousled and annoyed. 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Porthos mutters, allowing Aramis to drag him inside to Aramis’s rooms, lying obediently on the bed and letting Aramis take his trousers and boots so he can’t escape. “‘Mis?”

 

“Mm?” Aramis says, examining Porthos’s wound. “It’s inflamed, you need to rest it. Rest, not go on gallivants about the place.”

 

“Do you think d’Artagnan…” Porthos trails off, deciding not to say anything afterall, pretending to be distracted by Aramis’s hair. It’s easy to do: Aramis has lovely hair, soft and long, twining around Porthos’s fingers when he wriggles them. Aramis tilts his head to look at Porthos and smiles. 

 

“Whatever is worrying you, I’m sure he’ll do good in the end,” Aramis says. “He’s got a good heart.”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. That’s true. “So do you. What happened, at the market?”

 

“I told you already,” Aramis says, less gently, going back to prodding at Porthos’s wound. “Alaman was in my shot.”

 

“Alright,” Porthos says. “I believe you.”

 

“I don’t know,” Aramis says, sighing, resting his forehead on the bed. “I’ve been distracted.”

 

“By what?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Thing,” Aramis says. “Old mistakes. Not so old… The Cardinal, Richelieu, Adele didn’t choose him, didn’t leave. He had her killed, one of his people showed me her grave.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, reaching out to touch Aramis’s head again, stroking his hair. “Sorry.”

 

Aramis looks up and there’s something in his look, regret and sorrow and something else, but he doesn’t say more. Porthos knows that grief twists all kinds of things up with it so he doesn’t question it. He’s just glad to be back in the hands of his friends, safe. Athos comes and leans in the doorway, smelling of the stables and slightly of wine. He has a bottle with him, which he holds up in suggestion. It’s a good suggestion and Aramis re-bandages Porthos before letting him sit up and have some. They sit, him and Athos and Aramis, shoulder to shoulder, passing the bottle down. d’Artagnan slips in to join them, bringing oranges and another bottle of wine. He sits the side of Porthos Athos isn’t keeping warm and pulls his knees up, brooding. Then he looks up at Porthos and smiles, warm and relieved and glad, and wraps his arms around Porthos, kissing his temple, offering him the extra orange. 

 


End file.
